


Bring me flowers

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [14]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbofur - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It becomes pretty obvious early on that Bilbo knows nothing of Dwarven culture and behaviour. However, he falls for Bofur quite hard and decides to court him in a proper Dwarven way</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring me flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=3367355#t3367355
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes, English is not my mother tongue

## Bring me flowers

Bilbo is clenching his fists, trying to supress a heavy blush. It has become painfully obvious within the first days of their journey to Erebor that hobbits and dwarves are quite different. The number of times he has put his foot in his mouth since the company’s arrival at his comfortable home in the Shire seems to be increasing with every day.

He has learned quickly that dwarves are not only loud and have no table manners at all, but that they also have a rather different opinion about personal space. Hobbits are rather shy creatures, keeping their private lives private, and even married couples are not touching each other when in company. Dwarves, however, know no boundaries. Sitting so close together that one’s thighs are touching, walking with one’s shoulders brushing, sleeping with one's feet entangled! In the first night he had been shocked to see the company basically sleeping in a heap, only Thorin, Gandalf, Fili and Kili setting up their bedrolls secludedly – he might as well mention that the two brothers were never lying alone.

The dwarves had not been surprised when Bilbo had wanted to keep his distance when sleeping (after all Gandalf did the same), though they were genuinely hurt when he kept increasing the space between them when walking or sitting. Obviously for them that was a sing for despising a person.

That they had thought him prudish when he had insisted on washing alone had been one of the lesser problems, along with declining drinking their ale (terribly rude!) and frowning because of their always dirty clothes (“Are you our mother??”). However, not serving Thorin first when it had been his duty to cook had been a dreadful insult to the king. They had forgiven him this fax-pas after Gandalf had explained – before the wizard had intervened there had been quite a few hands touching the hilts of swords and axes. Well, how is he supposed to know their eating rituals?  
In the Shire that is much easier. The person sitting farthest away from the chef gets the first serving and the chef himself the last. The second he has taken his seat and told them to enjoy their meal everybody would start eating – and not a moment earlier. Obviously dwarves handle mealtimes quite differently. The person highest in rank gets the first serving and immediately starts eating, the others following according to their social status.

Bilbo sighs heavily. He risks another shy side-glance at Bofur who is currently sitting next to his cousin, laughing about some rude gesture Bifur has made. He tries to ignore the sudden pace increase in the beating of his heart. Yes, he likes him. A lot. Only what is he supposed to do now?

In the Shire that would be easy. If you have found a person you can imagine spending your life with you go and court them and if they like you as well you marry them as soon as possible and try to bring a lot of tiny, curly-haired, hairy-footed hobbit children into this world.

Bilbo sighs again. Do dwarves have courting rituals? Or do they simply drag their chosen wife to their rooms? He snorts. They are not heartless, only a little louder and rougher than the quiet-loving gentlehobbits. Another sigh. They surely have rituals, which are probably seriously complicated. How is he supposed to figure them out, though? And – even more important – how will he find out what they think about homosexual relationships? Two males lying with each other are rather frowned upon in the Shire, although it is not forbidden. But he has heard about men being killed if they fell for a person of the same gender and he is not keen on having his head cut off only because he admits his feelings for Bofur openly. The next sigh. He has no other option – he will have to ask one of the others about it.

 

“Master Balin?”

The old dwarf smiles. “Yes, lad, what can I do for you?”

Bilbo shuffles his feet. “I was wondering if you could… answer me some questions?”

“Of course, lad. Sit down!” He points to the floor next to him.

The hobbit does as instructed, his eyes darting across the clearing they are camping in. The others are busy discussing something, only Balin and Thorin sitting on their own, smoking, the latter one a few metres away from his old friend. Gandalf is off who-knows-where, doing his mysterious wizard-business.

“What is it that you want to know?”

Bilbo squirms and his eyes automatically find Bofur who is getting the fire going, his cheerful grin as always dimpling his cheeks. His heart stutters and he quickly looks away, though not quickly enough.

Balin chuckles lowly. “Do you need any advice on how to win Bofur over?”

Bilbo gulps. “Uhm… actually… yes? And… I was wondering as well whether it is common for dwarves to… to…”

“Lie with someone of the same gender?”

The hobbit only nods.

“Aye. There are only very few dwarf-women and even they sometimes prefer lying with each other. However, then they mostly try to conceive a child with a male friend.” He winks.

Bilbo, who is incredibly relieved, blushes. The Baggins in him is complaining loudly about him choosing a male partner, but the Took, who is madly in love with Bofur, is crying way louder.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Balin asks, smirking.

“Uhm… yes. You see, I… tend to… blunder, since I do not know your… customs and… everything.”

The old dwarf smiles understandingly. “You want to know how to court him.”

“Yes,” Bilbo admits. “Yes, I do.”

 

Bilbo wearily watches Bofur and Bombur talk, staring down at his still full bowl of tonight’s stew. At first he is supposed to show the dwarf that he likes him, and Balin has told him to do so by giving him food. Usually he would prepare the other one’s favourite dish and either have it delivered to him or bring it around in person; however, he is not supposed to stay. (Actually this is a courting ritual the hobbits could as well adopt, considering their love for everything edible… they would never leave after handing over the dish, though.) A short smile flashes over his face before he gives his supper a sad look. It is now or never, for Bofur has just finished his serving and Bilbo’s own will be getting cold if it is not eaten soon. He gulps heavily – for hobbits giving away their meal is proof for quite a lot of affection, even more so since the helpings are accurately calculated.

He rises and walks over to where the dwarf is sitting (as casually as he manages, although he doubts that he really appears to be calm – he sees Balin’s smile from the corner of his eyes) and holds his bowl out to Bofur. “You look like you are still hungry.”

Bofur’s eyes widen for a moment, before he starts to smile broadly (Bilbo’s intestines knot themselves together) and shakes his head. “Thank ye very much, but I don’t want ye to have nothing.”

Bilbo’s own – forced – smile wavers. Is this a rejection? “No, please, take it.”

Bofur hesitates for another second or two, but then his stomach is rumbling and he blushes. “Well, if ye are sure…”

The hobbit nods eagerly. “Very sure,” he affirms and finally the dwarf accepts his offer, smiling thankfully. “Thank ye,” he says again.

Bilbo returns to the spot where he had been sitting, not sure whether he is supposed to be relieved that he has dared to take the first step or nervous about what Bofur might think of him now or disappointed that the dwarf has not reacted in any way that might show he has understood the hobbit’s gesture. He sighs once more (that is becoming a habit of his) and decides to settle down for the night.

 

It is two nights later that Bofur first does something out of the ordinary.  
The temperature has sunk rapidly and Bilbo is freezing, unable to sleep because of the cold. He is thinking about getting up and maybe doing a few jumps in order to warm himself up again when he feels something heavy being put over his shivering form.

He opens his eyes and turns his head only to see Bofur, who is sitting next to him, smiling. “Ye looked like ye might need another blanket,” he explains.

Bilbo gulps heavily (his voice seeming to be hiding somewhere behind his throat) and cannot help but smell the other one’s scent. It sends a shiver down his spine. “Won’t… won’t you be cold?” he asks reluctantly, already feeling the heat return to his body.

Bofur shakes his head. “Nay, me skin’s thicker than yer’s.” He winks and leaves for his own bedroll.

Although he is no longer freezing Bilbo is lying awake for another few hours. He tries to drown himself in the dwarf’s scent; completely happy with having some possession of Bofur’s so close (strictly speaking this is the closest he has ever been to his beloved, which is rather pathetic). However, there is a tiny sting at the back of his mind that takes his sleep for quite a long time. In the Shire offering someone your bed (only the bed, without oneself being in it!) is a clear sign of affection.  
 _No_ , Bilbo thinks, _he has only given me his blanket. How could he know about hobbit customs anyway?_ But no matter how much he tries to banish the thought he cannot help but feel a tiny little bit of hope.

 

Bilbo has spent the last week observing Bifur and Bombur. Balin has told him that he basically has to court his intended’s family as well in order to show him he accepts them and would like to be considered a family member. Fortunately there is no need to be creative or follow certain rules; he only has to demonstrate that he likes them.

He squares his shoulders and walks over to Bombur who is on cooking duty. “Hello, master Bombur,” he smiles. “May I help you?”

The rather heavy dwarf lifts his head, obviously surprised. “Of course you may,” he grins. “I always appreciate the company of someone who cherishes good food as much as I do.” He winks.

Bilbo chuckles lowly. “I certainly do,” he agrees. “So – what are we cooking?”

Bombur beams. “Rabbit ragout,” he answers. “Kili has caught a few of them.”

The hobbit immediately starts to discuss the seasoning with the red-haired dwarf, the initial purpose of this conversation completely forgotten. Well, he definitely shows that he and Bofur’s brother get along quite well. However, bonding with Bombur had been the easier task. A few hours later he still does not have any idea how to show that he likes Bifur, especially since he cannot talk with the dwarf who only speaks Khuzdul. And even if he were able to converse with him – what topic could he choose?

He sighs heavily, before remembering Balin’s words. He is supposed to show Bofur that he _likes_ his family, not that he is able to _talk_ to them. Thus he decides to try and support Bifur a little and the next morning finds him carrying part of his beloved’s cousin’s package.

 

Bilbo is enjoying his dinner (Bombur’s infernal chili con carne) when Bofur approaches him, smiling shyly.

“I wanted to thank ye for givin’ me yer servin’ the other night and for helpin’ Bifur,” he explains, handing the hobbit a wooden spoon he has obviously carved himself. The pattern is beautiful – delicate columns and high ceilings, a miniature dwarven hall – and Bilbo finds himself unable to breathe. He has seen the dwarf work on the spoon (although not knowing what it would be) for the better part of the week and he is amazed when he sees tiny figures on the floor of the hall, looking up at him. Bofur must be incredibly skilful, being able to carve the tiny faces of armed dwarves, standing on piles of gold and gems.

He feels a painful twinge at the bottom of his stomach. Hobbits give wooden spoons they have made themselves to their beloved ones, showing them the sincerity of their feelings. However, Bilbo doubts highly that Bofur knows anything about lovespoons, he is probably only trying to be nice. The halfling pushes the disappointment and the sadness to the back of his mind and forces a smile. “Thank you very much,” he says, inclining his head slightly.

Bofur smiles, too, and returns to eating his bowl of chili con carne.

Bilbo sighs heavily.

 

It is a good thing, Bilbo thinks, that he always chooses to bathe alone whenever they have the opportunity to do so, for otherwise he would probably not be able to keep himself from staring at Bofur. Most likely he would end up with a boner and amuse the whole company. However, it is a pity that this way he never gets to see Bofur naked or at least without his tunica and shirt.  
This time he hurries to wash himself and when he returns to the camp he is surprised at the unexpected opportunity to take the next step presented to him.

It is a little clichéd that dwarves offer to braid each other’s hair and beards in order to show their affection, considering their love for creative and difficult braiding patterns. Well, Bilbo does not mind this custom at all, for his mother had taught him how to braid when he had been barely able to coordinate his tiny hands, fascinated by her coiffure. Albeit he had been wondering when to offer taking care of Bofur’s hair, not really knowing in which situations doing so would be appropriate. Balin had forgotten to mention that.

Now, however, the dwarf’s hair is still wet and unbraided, a rare sight indeed, and what seems to be his best shot. Bilbo builds up his courage and approaches his intended who is sitting on the floor, once again trying to appear calm and self-confident. Bofur looks up when he hears him clear his throat, eyes bright. “Bilbo! What can I do for ye?”

Bilbo forces a smile. “Nothing, but maybe I can do something for you?”

Bofur cocks his head and looks at him expectantly.

The hobbit clears his throat one more. “I was wondering whether you would let me braid your hair?” he asks hesitantly.

Bofur seems to be taken a little of guard, having a coughing fit. Then he returns the smile, although it looks somewhat pained. “Sure.”

Trying to suppress the shaking of his hands Bilbo sits down and splits the wet hair into two equally thick strands, brushing one to either side of the dwarf’s head. Then he works, swiftly and with skilful fingers, braiding two plaits. He is fascinated beyond belief when the tips of the braids turn upwards just when he has finished.

 

Later that day, when they have been walking for quite a while and Bilbo starts to lose himself in daydreams, no longer taking care where he is putting his feet, there is suddenly a small bunch of flowers disturbing his vision.

Bofur’s crooked smile is as breath-taking as the seven colourful flowers in his hands. “Here, for ye,” the dwarf murmurs, waits until he has taken the bouquet, and vanishes as fast as he had come.

Bilbo is incredibly confused. _Probably a thank you for the braiding_ , he concludes, not daring to hope for another meaning – not after Bofur’s sudden leaving. _Even if there are seven of them._ By now he has learned how important that number is for dwarves. Still, this surely does not mean anything. Or at least not what he wants it to mean.

The hobbit drops off into another daydream.

 

It has taken him more than two weeks to make the gloves.

Bilbo had talked Kili into giving him the skin of the bear the archer had managed to kill and spent quite a lot of time on tanning the leather. Sewing it together had been even more time consuming, even more so because he had had to make sure Bofur did not realise what he was doing and at the same time finding out whether he was using the right proportions. After all it would all have been in vain if the gloves should not be fitting the dwarf.

Now that he has finished them he is rather nervous. According to Balin giving gloves is already terribly forward of him, but since Bofur has not reacted to his other attempts he hardly has any other possibilities left.  
He takes a deep breath and catches up with the dwarf who is walking in front of him. “Bofur?”

The other one turns his head. “Hm?”

“I… I have something for you.” Judging by the heat in his ears he is blushing heavily.

Bofur smiles. “Ye do?”

Bilbo nods, his voice having left him, and hands the dwarf to gloves.  
Bofur freezes and only takes them after a few (very long) moments, hesitating. “Thank… ye,” he mutters, his voice cracking. He turns them in his hands, letting his calloused fingers run over the soft leather and the warm fur on the inside. “They are wonderful.”

Bilbo watches him nervously. Putting the gloves on would mean that the dwarf is accepting his courtship. Not wearing them is equatable to a rejection. He thinks his heart stops beating when he sees Bofur put the gloves into his pocket.

 

For the next few days Bofur is terribly distanced and Bilbo only wants to hide in a dark cave and cry his eyes out. He is avoiding the dwarf as much as possible, wallowing in self-pity. Obviously he does not stand a chance.

He uses a particularly rainy day to let the tears fall, because now nobody will see them, and feels utterly miserable (even more than in the morning) when Thorin finally gestures for them to stop.

“Dwalin, Gloin, Bifur – come with me.” He leads them into a small cave – Bilbo would have missed the narrow, overgrown entrance – and only a few minutes later they come back. “It is clear, we will stay there for the night,” their leader announces and everyone is happy that they have finally found a dry spot. Oin lights a fire, while Fili and Kili (complaining loudly) are sent back into the rain to catch them some meat for dinner.

Bilbo retreats to the farthest corner of the small cave and simply sits down, knees pulled to his chest, shivering. Trying to occupy his shaking hands he takes Sting out of its sheath, letting his fingers trail the engraving. He is more than relieved that the blade is making no move to glow blue and he is just about to put it back when he feels something slide into the empty sheath. Looking up he sees Bofur, the dwarf’s expression unreadable, who has obviously given him one of his knives. Bilbo pales, his heart dropping to his boots. He is very tempted to cry or run away and never come back, but when he sees the unfamiliar gleam in Bofur’s eyes he feels a sudden, unexpected rage flow through his veins.  
Shaking again, but now due to his anger, not the cold, he pulls the knife out of the sheath, giving it back to the dwarf. “That was unnecessary,” he says, his voice cold, and Bofur flinches.

“W-what?”

It takes all of Bilbo’s self-control to keep his voice low, not wanting to entertain the rest of the company with this humiliation. “Do you seriously think I didn’t understand after the gloves?” Bofur looks genuinely confused, but Bilbo is way too angry to realize that. “I have already understood that you are not interested, you would not have needed to say it so clearly!”

Bofur’s eyes widen. “Why-… what… what are ye talkin' about?”

Bilbo gnashes his teeth. “Giving someone a knife is like telling them they are ugly and that you never want to see them again,” he growls slowly.

Bofur gasps for air. “For dwarves it is a proposal,” he admits, suddenly no longer able to look the hobbit in the eye.

Bilbo feels like all the air in his lungs is suddenly gone, leaving him unable to talk or even breathe. “Like a marriage proposal?” he croaks and the dwarf nods ever-so-lightly.  
“But… I don’t understand!... you didn’t put on the gloves…”

“I thought ye didn’t know what ye were doin’,” Bofur confesses. “How could ye? It… it hurt, me havin’ fallen so hard for ye and you doin’ all those things for me… and thinkin’ ye had no idea what they meant.” He gulps. “But ye didn’t say anything after I gave ye the lovespoon, either. Or the flowers. And I offered ye me bed…”

Bilbo shakes his head, trying to get rid of the dizziness that is freezing his thoughts. “Who?...” is all he manages to say.

Bofur smiles sadly. “Gandalf,” he answers and the hobbit lets his head fall against the wall of the cave. It hurts quite a lot, but afterwards the mist is gone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what? I didn’t realize that ye knew what ye were doin’, either. Who told ye?”

“Balin.”

The dwarf nods. “That explains why ye didn’t know about the knife. Dwarves who have barely come of age and are lookin’ for a companion wear an empty sheath on their girdle. Those who are interested buy or forge a knife and give it to him and if they get it back that means they were rejected,” he explains and with a tiny squeal Bilbo grabs the blade he has given back to the other one in his rage, pressing it against his chest. Bofur chuckles lowly, his cheerful smile slowly returning. “Since ye had already chosen someone Balin wouldn’t have told ye about that.” His eyes are sparkling when he sees the way the hobbit is holding onto the knife and he reaches into his pocket, pulling the gloves out and putting them on.

Bilbo holds his breath, only slowly understanding what all of this means. Bofur has put the gloves on. He has taken the knife back. The knife in the sheath was a marriage proposal. So… he squeals again and flings his arm around the dwarf, throwing himself onto the other one’s lap.

Bofur presses him against his chest, so hard it almost hurts, but Bilbo does not care. “Damn cultural differences,” he mutters, his nose buried in the crook of Bofur’s neck. “You better tell me everything about dwarven weddings, otherwise I might make even more embarrassing mist-” He does not get to finish his sentence, for suddenly the dwarf is kissing him, lovingly and passionately and possessively. “Wow,” Bilbo breaths when they finally break apart.

Bofur’s grin is huge and his eyes are wild. “Did ye say wedding?”

Bilbo freezes. “Well, you said this was a propo-” Again he is interrupted.

“Does that mean ye are sayin’ yes?”

“Well – I did take the knife back, didn’t I?” Again his lips are being captured and he can feel all the bones in his body being turned to butter.  
“Next time,” he murmurs later, when his head is leaning against Bofur’s shoulder and the dwarf is running his short fingers through his locks, “just bring me flowers.”

Bofur chuckles lowly and plants an affectionate kiss on Bilbo’s head. “I’ll remember it.”


End file.
